Her Best Laid Plans

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“Do you now?” he asked. “And what might those stakes be?”

“Your dignity.”

He pouted, posture slumping. “I’m doomed then. Can’t we play for something else?”

She knocked a red into a pocket. “Such as...?”

“I rather liked our earlier wager.”

“At this rate, I’ll be leaving here with an entire bottle.” She eyed the yellow ball.

“Mine, not yours.”

She looked up and held his stare. “I liked your wager, too,” she admitted, her smile feeling as shy as her words were bold.

He stepped closer, skirting the corner of the table. Goodness, those hips. This man could slink.

“If that’s the case,” he said softly, “then maybe the snooker’s a bit of a formality.”

“But I already paid for it.”

A wholly evil grin quirked Connor’s lips, and he dropped to his haunches, crouching to fiddle with something underneath the table. With a smart shove, he popped the coin tray in and out, and Jamie’s investment clattered into the little change well beside it. He came close, closer—very, very close—and pressed the euro to her palm. His mouth was so near she could feel his warm exhalation at her temple.

She swallowed, pocketing the coin. “Well played.”

He took her cue stick slowly—slow enough to allow a protest, but Jamie didn’t have one to offer. She watched him set it on the table with his own, upsetting the balls and calling an official end to the match. With that same measured approach, he brought one hand lightly to her side, palming her hip. His hand was hot. So hot. The heat of him seeped inside her, rising to warm her chest, her neck, her face.

“Flash,” he said, nodding to mean her sparkly silver belt.

“I’ve got a weakness for glitter.” A weakness for glitter and, it would appear, shameless Irish barmen. Quite without meaning to, she licked her bottom lip. His eyes recorded the signal, fixed like magnets on true north.

He cleared his throat and spoke softly. “I’ve locked us in a pub together. I think chivalry demands the next move be yours to make.”